Playground
by xMissMacaroni
Summary: bby!Klaine with your typical playground drama. Inspired by Muchacha10 on deviantART & Tumblr. Not technically romance, but it could be one day.


I've been addicted to bby!Klaine lately, so it's was only natural that I had to write this out. Short little ficlet based on Muchacha10's "Scraped Knees" artwork and dialogue on deviantART. I don't own Glee, the characters, or the dialogue that goes on between bby!Kurt and bby!Blaine.

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Shrieks of laughter drifted through the air where children were running around and playing games with each other. The sun was shining and the weather was perfect. It was a beautiful day, so naturally every child begged his or her parents for a trip to the playground. It was the highlight of their young lives to spend an entire day horsing around in sandboxes or running around on fresh green grass with their friends.

On the fourth swing of the swing set across the playground sat one little Kurt Hummel. He, like the other children occupying the other swings, was kicking his legs back and forth, trying to swing higher and higher. Every kid knew that swinging super high was the coolest thing to do. It proved how fearless you were, because you weren't afraid of falling off the swing. Kurt was slightly terrified of swinging so high, but he wasn't going to be the only kid singing leisurely while everyone else tried to practically swing over the set itself. The interest in the little swinging competition died down soon enough, though, as the more rambunctious kids on the playground went off to do other things. Kurt smiled happily, slowing his swinging pace so that it was gently and easy to stop without scuffing up his shoes.

"Hey! Wanna come play dodgeball with us?" asked a young boy with short brown hair as he ran up to the swings. He was taller than Kurt by a couple of inches, and definitely bulkier. He was dressed in a simple pair of shorts and a red t-shirt—perfect play clothes.

Kurt looked over at the boy who seemed to be hoping that he would agree to play. Kurt looked down at his own clothing. He was wearing a clean white collared shirt adorned with a light blue bow tie, a darker blue sweater over the shirt and tucked into khaki shorts, knee-length socks, and his favorite pair of brown leather shoes his mother had bought for him for his birthday. He was hardly dressed to play dodgeball, but it wasn't often that other boys invited him to play with them. And this boy just looked so hopeful. Kurt smiled and nodded, hopping off the swings. "Sure, I'll play," he replied, his smile widening when the other boy's face broke out into an excited grin.

"Cool! I'm Dave," the boy introduced himself, walking with Kurt over to the field where a bunch of boys were gathered, waiting on them.

"Kurt," Kurt said.

When the two reached the group of boys, they split into teams—Dave and Kurt happened to find themselves on the same team—and started playing. As it turns out, Kurt wasn't as talented as the other boys when it came to throwing the ball and actually hitting members of the opposite team. He had only managed to hit one person, and it had been a lucky shot because the boy had been distracted trying to peg someone else. As Kurt ran around, trying to avoid the balls being thrown this way and that, one managed to hit him square in the back. The force of the impact knocked the wind from his lungs and made him stumble, falling to the ground on his hands and knees. Kurt gasped in pain as he felt his palms slide on the ground, most likely getting a few scratches.

"You ok?" asked Dave as he ran over to Kurt and extended a hand.

Kurt smiled a bit, biting back the stinging in his palms as he took Dave's hand and stood up. "Yeah, I'm ok. Can't say the same for my shorts, though," he said, frowning down at the grass stains that now decorated his shorts.

Dave was about to say something in response when one of the other boys on the opposite team laughed in their direction. "Aw, look at little Davey help the Sissy who can't take a fall," the boy jeered, causing the other boys on his team to laugh and mock them.

Dave ripped his hand out of Kurt's. "I—I wasn't," he tried to explain himself, not knowing what to say. As the laughter grew louder, Dave seemed to panic and without warning shoved Kurt back to the ground and ran toward the boys. "I don't help sissies!," he scoffed, joining in on the laughter that was now only directed at Kurt who was on his hands and knees once more.

Tears sprang to Kurt's eyes as the boys laughed at him and started walking away, while he sat there with more scratches on his hands and fresh new ones on his knees. He sniffled and stood up slowly, hissing at the stinging sensation that he felt from the skin on his knees as they straightened out. A sandbox was near by, so Kurt made his way over to it and sat down on the edge, trying his hardest not to cry.

"Hey! Are you ok?" asked the voice of another boy about his age. Kurt looked up to find a boy with a head of messy black curls and wide hazel eyes coming over to inspect him. "Gosh, you're bleedin'!" said the boy as he got closer and spotted the nasty scrapes on Kurt's knees that were indeed bleeding.

Kurt sniffled and rubbed his nose. "A m-mean kid p-pushed me down and scraped my kn-knees," he explained as the boy stopped to stand in front of him.

"What a jerk. Want me to kick him for you?" the boy asked, looking around to see if he could spot this 'jerk.'

Kurt giggled. "But you're even smaller than me!" he exclaimed, noticing that the other boy was indeed a bit shorter. He, too, was wearing the perfect clothes to play in—a regular t-shirt with a lion on the front, comfortable shorts, and sneakers.

"Yeah, but my mom says big things come in small packages," the boy shrugged, giving Kurt an adorable smile. He went over to the edge of the sandbox and sat down next to Kurt. "So, why did he push you down?" he asked curiously.

"H-he thinks I'm a sissy," Kurt mumbled, staring down at his shoes.

"You aren't a sissy," the boy said immediately, causing Kurt to look up at him with curious blue eyes. "He's a sissy. He pushed you because you're different from him."

"D-different?" Kurt sniffled, blinking in confusion.

The boy nodded. "Yeah. You're nicer than him, and probably a whole lot smarter too, huh?" the boy said with a wide smile.

Kurt smiled a bit. "Maybe."

The boy placed his hand on top of Kurt's, the smile still on his face. "My mom says that people who are different are beautiful. She tells me that all the time! And you know what I think?" he asked. He didn't even wait for Kurt to respond. "I think that mom's are the smarted people in the world."

Kurt gave the boy a watery smile, wiping away a few tears that had spilled over. "Y-yeah. Moms know everything," he said, thinking about his own mother who was the best person he knew.

"Sure do. So if my mom says that you are beautiful, she's gotta be right!" the boy said happily.

"Really? Beautiful?" Kurt asked, never ever having heard those words come out of another boy's mouth before.

"Yep!" the boy smiled. "If you want, I can go ask my mom for some band-aids. She always has some," he said, looking down at his knees sheepishly. Kurt looked down at giggled at the shocking amount of band-aids that decorated this boy's knees. "Come on!" he said, pulling Kurt up off the sandbox.

"O-okay," Kurt sniffled, finally having fought back all of the tears. "But...why are you holding my hand?" he asked, not used to boys being so comfortable about touching him.

The boy cocked his head the side and looked at Kurt curiously. "Isn't that what you do when you wanna cheer someone up?"

Kurt shrugged, smiling a little. "Um...yeah. I guess so."

The boy smiled happily and continued to pull Kurt along, mindful of the scrapes and scratches on his hands. "My name's Blaine, by the way," he said grinning widely, silky curls bouncing around his face as they walked across the playground to where the moms and dads were seated on benches.

Kurt returned the gesture, his blue eyes shining happily at the fact that he had most likely met the boy who could be his best friend. "I'm Kurt."


End file.
